


Where's Waldo?

by swamplamp



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cinnabon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Felina, Shower Sex, gardening and shit, mildly domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamplamp/pseuds/swamplamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You must've pissed off the Extractor. I didn't know that guy had a sense of humor. I go by Gene."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>"Like yours is any better."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>"It's a living." Saul stands and heads towards the stairs: "On an entirely unrelated note, I've gotta go to work."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where's Waldo?

Jesse Pinkman manifests on his doorstep like a wet dream that nobody asked for. It's 4 AM.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Saul remarks flatly, squinting out towards that semi-familiar face. Seeing Pinkman lets old feelings roll back in and isn't that a shame? Saul makes to shut the door and go back to a kinder slumber.

But he stops. Saul feels a twinge of sympathy worming its way into his chest before he can start pulling the door closed. They stand there for a moment, steeped in caution and confusion.

"Saul?" the shaggy mess of a kid asks belatedly, muted like he's crawling out of a coma.

Saul sees no car outside that might suggest that Jesse drove there. Momentarily--stupidly, he wonders if he came all the way from Alaska. Saul's got a scar across the bridge of his nose that reminds him otherwise.

He's always been a sucker for strays. The dirty ones, especially. Old Saul is back in business.

He herds him into his living room quickly. Once the door is shut, Jesse just stands there, sizing him up halfheartedly. He makes a vague gesture towards Saul's face and asks hoarsely, "What are you supposed to be?"

"Worlds away from your charming self." It's unnerving how dead-faced Jesse is, even when he's giving him lip. Saul is unnerved. "We're not supposed to know each other, you know?"

"I know."

Saul draws a hand over his own face, half thinking about what to do but mostly thinking about his face. The mustache wasn't his idea. He was never one for facial hair. But what can he say? It grew on him.

Saul should be worried about how the hell the kid found him, but he finds himself more worried about the way Jesse's swaying listlessly. And speaking of facial hair: whatever Jesse is sporting would give Rip Van Winkle a run for his money. "Sit down. Settle in. Sleep. Let's all just sleep and settle this out in the morning."

He doesn't have a guest room. At a loss, he places a pillow and quilt beside Jesse. The weight of being disturbed from his sleep in the middle of the night prods at his shoulders like bad news. Jesse looks enough like an omen, shoulders sagging and puffy red eyes downcast to the floor. Just looking at him sit there on the couch makes Saul feel 20 pounds heavier.

"Kid." He places a hand on Jesse's shoulder, just to stop him from staring out into nothingness. He crouches slightly to meet Jesse's eyes. "Before I let you stay here, tell me one thing: you being here, does this mean we're in trouble?"

Jesse looks back at him, all steely-eyed and sure. "No. It's over."

Saul nods. He heads back upstairs to go back to sleep, unsure of why and how he knows that that's a lie.

* * *

He wakes to the sound of distant music as if he's died and the great Lord has taken his whole house with him. The bludgeoning weariness in his bones brings him out of that illusion. He's living in the backwards universe of Jesse Pinkman in his living room.

From the top of the stairs, Saul spots his illustrious guest standing in front of the stereo, playing one of Saul's CDs. Saul never pegged Jesse as a jazz type of guy.

Coffee first, everything else later. Honestly, he was expecting Jesse to disappear overnight, fade away when the sun came up. No such luck. This may be a situation after all.

Saul pops four frozen waffles into the toaster oven and settles into a kitchen chair. Here's what he knows: from local news channels to the Hindustan Times, Walter White's certain death was paraded up and down the street nonstop two months ago. In that time, Saul was bombarded with dozens of awkward photos of Walt with varying amounts of hair. He couldn't turn the TV on without seeing his face. The press loves a good story of a lone wolf. Good for them. Also good for Pinkman. Saul never found a single word on Jesse's involvement. But then again, he didn't look very hard at all.

Put simply, Saul's out of the loop. None of this is his business anymore. Despite what his sleep-addled brain may have thought last night, Saul Goodman is no more. He's Gene now. And Gene needs to get to work in a couple hours.

"Got any plans for the day?" Saul asks over his breakfast of waffles and fruit. Jesse seems to have opted for the gluten-free option of wallowing and gloom, despite Saul's gesture of placing two waffles in front of him. Jesse has humored him enough to have sat at the table, so Saul considers that to be a step.

"Is it alright if I, you know, chill here?" Jesse sinks a little lower into his seat, glancing up once, twice uneasily.

Saul wonders if that's an inquiry of extended permission to stay or a passive aggressive demand for him to shut up. He doesn't ask. "It's fine."

Jesse's voice has gotten rougher, just like the rest of him. Saul remembers back when Jesse was young and clean-shaven, fresh out of rehab. He had hope for him then, happily helping him snatch that cozy little abode out of his own parents' hands. That all went up shit creek, as they often do in the business. Jesse's aged quickly; he's been through a lot. Saul gets it.

And he doesn't mind the company. There's a shock of blue in Jesse's eyes that remind him of fire, blood, and stacks of cash. It's a sickly comfortable kind of feeling. If there's anyone here who's a glutton for pain and bad memories, it's gotta be Saul. And maybe Jesse, by the looks of him. That makes them a pair.

"Hey," Saul says not unkindly. "Legally speaking, the less I know about where you've been, the better. But if you need to talk about it, I'm here."

Jesse sways his head slightly downwards. Saul takes that as a nod, knows that the look in Jesse's face is neither acceptance nor denial. "What is there to talk about?"

"Fair enough. You got a new ID?"

He earns a definitive shrug--contemplative, even. Jesse fishes a card from his pocket, lays it on the dining table and slides it over to Saul.

It's a Nevada driver's license and the name on the card makes Saul snort. "Nice to meet you, Waldo. You must've pissed off the Extractor. I didn't know that guy had a sense of humor. I go by Gene."

"Like yours is any better."

"It's a living." Saul stands and heads towards the stairs: "On an entirely unrelated note, I've gotta go to work."

* * *

A corner of his closet houses a pop of tangerine orange, rose pink, and turquoise. He's kept a few of his old shirts, despite knowing he'll never have the chance to put them on again. Boy, did he know how to work the Goodman charm.

Every time he takes a peek into that side of his closet, he itches for the dizzy client-after-client workflow. Billboards and bus stop ads with his face plastered across them for miles. Every day, he was raking in thousands by the minute.

Nowadays, it's the Gene Hewitt grays. And whites. And the occasional pastel green if he's feeling saucy. On a good day, he sees dollar bills by the hour. On an even better day, he's working in the back.

Saul cleans his glasses, combs down the hair, and maintains that godforsaken mustache. He appraises himself in the mirror. There he is. Old Gene who won out the manager position by a hair. He was up against a personable but not fully competent community college tyke named Whitney. His supervisor awarded him the title with one caveat: "You know how to keep our product and team at top quality, Gene. Just work on that charisma when dealing with customers and you'll be the perfect manager. Remember: eye contact and a smile."

Good, humble Gene nodded with all the gravitas needed at a time like that and said, "Thank you. I'll do my best."

And he certainly has been doing his best. Gene's on top of his game. "It's showtime."

* * *

When he gets home from work, he switches on the lights and finds a lifeless body lying facedown in the middle of his living room. It's only natural to panic. "Jesse!"

Saul rushes over in hopes of a pulse. He puts a hand to Jesse's back and shakes him. The last thing he needs is a longer trail of bodies in his wake. What a life. Lives. What a mess of questionably-led lives.

Jesse groans. Saul thanks god.

"What happened to you?" Saul asks as he drops his ass onto the floor and prepares himself for a delayed heart attack.

"I fell asleep."

"No kidding."

Jesse languidly rises to a sitting position, no apologies. "How was work?"

"Just swell, honey," Saul responds lamely. "This your idea of 'chilling'?"

"I was until you got here."

It almost feels normal. Jesse accusatory and Saul confounded. Saul feels slightly guilty about waking him up. The kid needs sleep. Saul notices that the quilt and pillow on the couch from last night sits undisturbed.

Saul offers his bed; Jesse declines. "No, no. The floor is good. It's got firmness to it. Feels a little less like dying."

He wants to tell him that it sure as hell doesn't look less like dying, but decides against it. He thinks back to the time he had Jesse holed up in the depths of that laser tag spot. The good old days when the most of their worries involved vehicular manslaughter and death threats. Jesse slept on the cold concrete back then, looking like shit when Saul brought him water and food. Saul can see that the situation Jesse's got going on now has ascended to penultimate levels of bad. Jesse Pinkman is sniffing him.

"Why the hell do you reek of cinnamon, dude?"

"I lost a fight with the Pillsbury Doughboy."

"Whatever."

They're both sitting on the floor. So, essentially, it's Saul's usual post-work agenda. They sit there for a while, side-by-side and without anything better to do. Their lives have been tangled up in a dead end and Saul knows it.

He notices how close Jesse is. It reminds him of a plant bending towards the sun. He smells the scent of copper warmly radiating off of Jesse and he's hit by the inexplicable urge to taste a penny--put it in his mouth and feel the ridges with his tongue.

Saul almost flinches when Jesse breaks the silence: "I miss that smell. My mom used to make these cinnamon sugar cookies every Christmas. The family loved the shit out of them. We'd take a big tray of it to parties and stuff."

Saul searches Jesse's face for a red flag or a smoke signal, unsure of what to make of this moment. He only witnesses detachment with a side of serenity, as if Jesse hadn't signed away the rights to ever see his mom and dad again. Jesse picks idly at a loose thread coming out of the couch cushion.

"She spent hours making those things," he continues. "We'd have enough to last us until New Year's. Or we would've if me and my little bro hadn't been such fatasses every time."

Jesse doesn't turn to look at him. He doesn't expect a reaction or a response, only smiles inwardly at the memory. Saul can imagine some emotional blowback later. He feels the tide gathering, teetering perilously high. Saul feels oddly responsible. Maybe guilty. No, it's definitely guilt. He doesn't have anything to say.

Jesse does. He looks at Saul now and says with conviction: "All that means jackshit now. That family doesn't belong to that prick Waldo."

Saul feels like he's been smacked in the gut.

"I've gotta go out tomorrow," Jesse says. "Get some clothes, get clean. Razor?"

Saul nods numbly. "I've got some extras in the bathroom."

* * *

"Hey, Gene," Whitney greets him warmly with a hand on his shoulder as they both clock in.

"Hi." Gene makes sure to smile and keeps his head low, abashed as a baby deer.

"How was your morning?"

"Good. Great weather this morning."

Whitney is a sweet girl. She would seem like a real pushover if she wasn't as tall as she is. She looks no older than 25 and speaks softly and slowly. From what he's gleaned from conversation, Whitney has been through the community college cycle for quite a few years now. She's one of those reckless youth who can't decide on a major, but still manages to stay out of trouble. Bless those kids.

"Again, I'm so sorry I mislabeled those boxes the other day." She's often sorry. "I've never been great with numbers."

"Don't worry. We got it sorted out eventually. You're doing good." Gene speaks with as much confidence as a wet noodle, but Whitney takes his encouragement to heart every time.

Jesse could've been like her. Saul, back in the day, had sniffed out enough dirt from Jesse's background to know what kind of kid he was and what kind of family raised him. Some people just pick up the wrong hobbies.

Not Gene though. Gene has lived a very unexciting life, absent of cartel dealings, fake Rolex schemes, and Chicago sunroofs. Gene was an ice cream man once. An immobile ice cream man. Let's not get too crazy here.

In the mid-afternoon lull, Saul discovers Jesse lounging around the seating area of his workplace. Clean-shaven, Jesse looks somewhat normal, barring the scars that run along his face and the seemingly permanent sunken look in his eyes.

Jesse doesn't say anything, just stares at him smugly like he's found him out. That's not far from the truth. Saul never meant for Jesse to know about his public life as sad little Gene. It's not that Saul is embarrassed or anything. It was more of a "don't shit where you eat" situation. Don't cross the streams, if you will.

Gene keeps his eyes on his hands full of flour. Just keep working. They'll talk later. Jesse could be as menacing as he wants, as long as he doesn't--

"Keep up the good work, Mr. Manager." Jesse saunters off.

The nerves in his shoulders spike like he's stepped in a pile of shaving cream. He's slightly placated once Jesse is out of sight. Saul sighs. Could've been worse.

* * *

"You've got all those people fooled, yo." Jesse greets him from his spot in front of the television.

"Not a word," Saul warns. He sets his keys and glasses on the kitchen counter and crosses his arms in front of himself to regard Jesse directly. He notices that the kid doesn't look himself today. It's the clothes. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Um, normal?" Jesse argues. "What? You judging my clothes now?"

Jesse is wearing a light blue button-up shirt, very clean-looking with a pair of fitted khaki pants. And he's got glasses on. That's new.

"Are those real?" Saul asks about the glasses.

"Are yours?"

Saul pauses. This is the worst litigation he's ever heard. He answers, "Yeah."

"Why are we even talking about me?" Jesse gets up from his place on the couch. "We should be talking about you right now. Cinnabon? That dickless, mumbling persona? It explains everything."

"What does it explain?" he responds incredulously. He can feel himself raising his voice. "It sure doesn't explain why it looks like you're Danny Zuko trying out for a spot on the rowing crew."

"I don't have to explain anything," Jesse provides gruffly.

The irony of this exchange is not lost on Saul. They're running in circles around each other like a bunch of idiots. Instead of diffusing the situation, he throws a proverbial lamp: "Are you still using?"

A flare in Jesse's eyes burns brightly and it's slightly terrifying. Slightly satisfying. Saul lets himself be smug for a moment until Jesse says through clenched teeth, "Fuck you. I haven't used in eight months. I don't need some dumbass NA chip to prove it."

The adrenaline spike fizzes out and now he's just tired. Saul knows that he's telling the truth, feels like shit. He straightens himself out before he asks quietly with eyes to the floor, "If you're so determined to become someone new, why the hell would you track me down?"

Jesse gets up real close to his face. He's not ready to let this go. He gives Saul a dead-eyed staredown, obviously taking a page from his old lab partner's book on intimidation tactics. It doesn't have the same effect. Jesse punctuates the move with a sharpness: "If you're so determined to save your own ass, why did you let me in?"

Saul suddenly feels so old. He stares right back at the scrawny scamp, unaffected by Jesse's attempt at intimidation. He's mildly tickled by the experience. Suddenly, he understands how Mike managed to be so impenetrable; he was surrounded by whippersnappers. This one's for you, Mike.

"You're not him," Saul posits.

Jesse's face falls and his posture deflates by an inch or so, as if breaking out of a trance. He backs off, a hand reflexively going to the back of his neck. The growl in his voice is gone when he says "Yeah. Yeah, I'm not."

The ghost of Walter White wafts out of the room and Saul sees it drain away from Jesse's entire body, leaving only a lost and unstable ex-meth addict to stand grimly before him. Knowing that, Saul is oddly comforted.

"I'm going out tonight," Jesse says, back to being the guy who showed up on Saul's doorstep. He struggles with his words. "If you, uh-- Is it... I might get back late?"

Saul knows what he's getting at. "I'll let you in when you get back."

* * *

Jesse has taken a liking to Saul's backyard. Saul never paid much attention to it. The lawn is sizable, enough for a small dog to be satisfied with. A single menacing tree consumes a good part of the yard. It looks like something out of that forest from The Wizard of Oz. Stay on the yellow brick path or else you'll get bludgeoned to death with apples. A great metaphor for suburban terror and their deep relationship with super foods.

Saul is not big on trees or biology or the outdoors. He has no idea what kind of tree it might be. It doesn't make a mess. That's what matters.

From the screen door and kitchen window, Saul sometimes looks out and acknowledges a neglected, garishly ornate bird bath sitting in the middle of the yard--an emblem of the outdoor's antiquity. It's about three feet high and a rusty green color. It came with the house. Water pools inside the bird bath during heavy rain months and Saul warily notes it as a big invite for mosquitoes, but he's never done anything about it.

The birds like it. And Jesse likes the birds. Saul notices that Jesse spends a lot of his early mornings and late afternoons sitting on the backyard steps while the birds mill around in the yard. He just sits there. Saul never asks him about it, fully resigned to his bafflement.

On Saul's days off, he gives Jesse space. Saul appreciates the change in knowing that someone else is around. He's not alone anymore, even if they go days without saying a word to each other.

"You ever think about doing anything with your yard?" Jesse asks over breakfast. They eat breakfast together, sometimes. A quaint turn of events.

"Like what? Condemning it?"

Jesse takes a big bite out of toast slathered in peanut butter. Nowadays, he eats voraciously. For that, Saul is glad. Jesse spent a solid week and a half eating very little and mostly out of sight from Saul.

"It's a nice yard is all," Jesse says with a mouth full. Saul has never seen so much peanut butter on one piece of toast. He's impressed.

"You want to do anything with it, go crazy."

And that was that. In the coming days, Saul half-expects anything between an overblown koi pond to a tiny birdhouse to appear in the backyard. In terms of woodworking experience or landscape architecture skills, Saul has no clue where Jesse stands. Day by day, he sees no change from the safety of his kitchen window.

By the next three days or so, curiosity gets the best of him and he wanders outside to assess any potential changes. It's the early evening and the sun is slowly setting. The wide expanse of lawn can be seen clearly from inside, but Saul always forgets about the creepy rocky side around the corner of his house where windblown trash, foreign leaves, and the occasional dead bird gather. That's where he finds Jesse.

Jesse is slumped against the wall and sitting on top of a long mahogany bench that Saul's never seen before. He has his hood over his head and doesn't notice Saul approaching him. He dropped the Walter White reincarnate look quickly, back to a mishmash between linen button-downs and oversized hoodies.

Saul butts into his solitude like a big rig in Nepal: "Seen any good rocks lately?"

"Oh," Jesse startles slightly. He doesn't fully turn to Saul, glancing over at him furtively but quickly turning back to look straight ahead. "Hey."

Suddenly, he feels bad for butting into Jesse's time. He bites his tongue, effectively keeping himself from asking anything horrifying like "You wanna talk about it?" He takes a seat next to him, weighing his options.

"Where'd this thing come from?" Saul decides, knocking on wood.

"Found it," Jesse answers, sounding kind of stuffy. He sniffles casually. "Somebody down the street was giving it away."

"That's what they say," Saul half-jokingly says. Realistically, he doesn't think Jesse would steal a rickety bench from their neighbors.

"I got it through legit means, yo," Jesse defends. "Craigslisted it and everything."

"Waldo's online debut?"

"No, how do you think he got here?"

"You hitchhiked all the way to Omaha through Craigslist?"

Jesse sits back and tugs on the strings of his hoodie. "Mostly."

Saul smells bullshit, but what does he know about the handiness of genuine online philanthropy? He's gotten a lot more time in with ingenuine online philanthropy, if he says so himself.

"You still have some of your money, don't you," Saul suggests. He might as well try to prod at a soft spot, see if anything leaks.

Jesse looks at him widely, all red-rimmed eyes.

"Doesn't matter where it came from. I just want to make sure that you're being careful."

Jesse sinks down lower and sighs laboriously. Saul's sure that the kid's received and ignored his fair share of fatherly advice, which is fine. Overbearing redundancy has never stopped Saul Goodman. Jesse doesn't call him out on it and instead asks, "You want to know something funny?"

Saul highly doubts he's about to hear something funny.

"I lifted it off a neo-Nazi pile." He doesn't brag. He says it glumly, flatly.

Saul can't make heads or tails of that statement. He searches Jesse's face, puzzled. Walt really did a number on him. "The bench or the money?"

"The money," Jesse practically barks. "Jesus."

Saul is stupidly pleased to get a rise out of him. The worst times are when Jesse is all deflated and evasive. He misses that hideous defiance. The same defiance that lit one in his office when he knew exactly what Saul's policy was on smoking. What a piece of work.

So maybe he likes some mediation between the two. He likes a little spunk with his dreariness. None of this "crying on a bench as the sun sets in the distance" business. He thinks about asking Jesse about Walt, but all he can see in his head is a giant harpoon being plunged into a giant bouncy house. That's his brain schooling him on the definition of tactlessness. In other words, it's a big honking red light.

He lets Jesse keep his secrets. For now. So he retreats, slowly rising from the bench.

"Hey," Jesse calls to him gently before Saul starts walking away. "I'm sorry."

The words sound strange coming out of the kid's mouth. That's why Saul freezes. He's sorry. Saul can think of plenty of things he could be sorry for, but he's never really wanted to hear it come from Jesse himself.

"You should stay," Jesse proposes, which is funny because Saul thinks that that's his line. "There's this cool bird that hangs around in that tree."

He points at the tree in Saul's neighbor's yard. Saul considers walking away because he's not terribly keen on birdwatching. He returns to the place next to Jesse because the thought of shooting him down makes his ears ring.

"It's got this white belly and it smacks its face against the bark like a dumbass." Jesse inches closer, encroaching upon Saul's personal space. The sides of their legs line up along each other, Jesse's warmth searing against Saul's side. Jesse grins like a man jubilant over dirt.

"You're a real anomaly, kid." There's something about the rapidly approaching night that makes everything feel surreal, as if the Delorean would just as likely rip its way through the sky and land in Saul's driveway. He blames it on the purpling sunset.

That's why he doesn't give it a second thought when he takes Jesse's hand in his. It feels cold, maybe a little clammy. Jesse looks at him with wide eyes. They look clear now, at least slightly clearer than before.

Saul feels his own blood pumping and he hopes he doesn't start spewing steam like a tea kettle. This is what telling the truth used to feel like. It's blood and heat.

"Birds like that generally have a curfew. They don't like the dark," Saul says. "Come inside, Jesse. I'll make us some dinner."

* * *

Saul's not a night person. In his later Saul Goodman days and early Gene Hewitt days, he had preferred waking up early, giving himself the chance to get a good breakfast in and prepare for the day at a leisurely pace. He had come to enjoy mornings, forsaking late nights unless he was feeling especially morose.

With Jesse in the house, Saul's habits have grown to work around his guest's habits, slowly rendering him slightly less geriatric. Saul waits for Jesse to come back, unintentionally crowning himself as the concerned wife waiting for the husband to get back from happy hour with the guys.

Tonight, Jesse comes back drunk and sociable, if being in-your-face and confrontational translates as being sociable. Saul opens the door and Jesse peers back at him with an impish glimmer. His hair is still long and shaggy, but combed back to suggest normalcy and civility.

"Let's talk about you, Saul." Jesse flops onto the couch.

"Ask away," he says, ready to humor him tonight. He settles into the easy chair adjacent to the couch and sits back.

"Saul's not your real name."

"That's not a question," Saul deflects, not meaning to deflect. He adds, "It's a legally accurate statement, but who keeps score nowadays?"

"You do." Jesse remains unmoved, staring him down with a slight smirk. "So, is Saul, like, dead or what?"

Saul honestly doesn't know where this is going, but he's decided to follow down that rabbit hole. "He's about as dead as Elvis, but twice as charming."

"Was he always such a dick?"

Saul chuckles, idly wishing he had a drink in his hand. "He was less of a dick, once upon a time."

"Then tell me a story, bitch." He's excited by the prospect of a bedtime story, fidgeting in his seat. His past self is showing through all the layers of dread.

Saul, however, is less than enthusiastic about the idea of talking about the long-buried Jimmy McGill. "Not with that attitude. Tell me about Waldo."

"He's, like, German or whatever. Obviously." Jesse shares Saul's sentiment regarding talking about himself. His eyes wander to the floor, then the ceiling. He looks like a puppy watching a fly buzz around the room. His eyes snap back to Saul, "Hey. So, tell me how you do that-- How do you become that dude at the Cinnabon?"

"The hair and glasses help," Saul nods. "But overall, I want to thank the Academy and my overwhelming desire not to die a horrible death or get caught by the Feds."

Jesse sighs and falls back against the couch, dissatisfied with the answer. He sets his hands behind his head. "I've tried, you know?"

"I know."

"Doesn't it kill you? I mean, you're you when you're here. When you're out there, you're all repressed and empty. I've seen you."

Saul supplies with certainty, "If you want it enough, you move forward."

"You haven't."

"Nobody's perfect." Saul takes this moment to realize that Jesse isn't drunk at all. He asks anyway: "Have you been drinking?"

Jesse answers in the negative, although god knows why he came in reeking of cigarettes and stale beer. He stretches out on the couch with a groan and explains: "I'm so sick of going to bars."

"You're going to bars but not drinking." Saul needs to make sure he understands here.

"That's, like, the place to be someone you're not. People don't give a shit there."

Saul's not gonna argue with that one.

Jesse continues, "But I do. I definitely care."

"Why?"

"It's because I-- You know? I just." He sputters like a stalling car, runs a hand over his face. He's obviously having an off day here.

"What are you running from?" Saul asks, hoping to steady him. Feeling a little like he's absorbed the shit-eating force of a therapist. Saul knows he can get answers out of him tonight, so he will.

"I'm running from the same thing you are."

"Which is?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

"Are we star-crossed lovers, Jesse?" he quips. "Is that what I feel between us?"

"No, seriously." Jesse stays in good spirits. This is good. "What happened to us in New Mexico, it's never gonna let us go. You've gotta at least feel it too."

He's got an answer to this one. "I don't think things happen to us. We happen. We're entirely responsible for what comes next."

Jesse's brows knit. Saul hazards that he didn't get the response he wanted. That's why he powers forward: "I don't think you should get too strung up on what we did back there, is all I'm saying. Bridge. Water. You know the drill."

Jesse doesn't like that one bit. He rolls his shoulders. "How can you be cool with this shit?"

"Not my first rodeo, kid. I've walked away from enough to know what I'm about. And not to mention, I've got a few more decades on you."

"No way you're that much older than me," said like someone that much younger than Saul. Of all the things Jesse takes away from this exchange.

"You're what? 22 years old?" He might as well be jabbing Jesse with a spork. The Jesse sitting before him with those scars and tired-out eyes couldn't pass as a 22-year-old. It's like he's aged ten years in the span of a little over a year.

"27," he supplies defensively. "If you're looking for someone to call you daddy, you're gonna have to look someplace else."

"You sure you don't have some strain of a daddy kink somewhere in there?"

Jesse makes a noise that sounds like a chuckle, "Sorry to disappoint."

"Got it. People filed under 'without daddy issues': Walter White's pseudo-adoptive son."

"What time is it?" Jesse pivots his head to look for a clock. "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"Day off." Saul notes that Jesse didn't fly off the handle at the mention of Walt. Didn't even flinch. He's testing his boundaries here and Jesse's taking it in stride. Progress. Maybe.

"Let's do something tomorrow," Jesse says. "I know you don't have plans because your social life is, like, nonexistent. Let's go out."

Saul's first thought is that this could be dangerous. If anyone sees them in public together, that could be it. But he realizes that he and Jesse weren't exactly Bonnie and Clyde. Who would put two and two together? This might be okay. "Yeah. Let's do it."

* * *

Saul wakes up in the middle of the night, feeling like he's been set on fire. He's all sweat and a racing heart. He kicks the covers off of himself and takes a breath. Sometimes the nightmares linger and he fucking hates that.

It's always a gun to his face, a live maiming, or a combination of the two. He would think that he'd be over it by now. For years, it's been blah blah mass murder, blah blah knife to his throat. Why should it bother him in dreams anymore than it bothered him in real life?

He hauls himself out of bed. He needs something to shake off that leftover feeling of solid metal, heads downstairs. It's pitch black in the house, but he decides not to turn on any lights. Harsh lights in his face wouldn't exactly be the most comforting at a time like this.

A light is on downstairs. It's the TV. Jesse's sitting upright on the couch, watching commercials in the dark. He turns his head to acknowledge Saul like it isn't 3 AM, "Yo."

Saul gets himself a cup of water and joins Jesse on the couch. They sit. Saul feels the tension in his body slough away. It's kind of cozy here, knowing the rest of the world is dead asleep. They're the last people alive.

"You do this often?" Saul asks.

Jesse responds flatly, "Watch TV?"

Saul doesn't feel particularly inclined to continue this conversation. The couch cushions feel so soft and cool, he could sink in and never leave.

"I have trouble sleeping," Jesse admits, extended as an apology. "I don't really care what I'm watching. It's just nice to have."

Saul studies Jesse's face. He doesn't even look tired. Saul sits up. If the kid is okay with talking, they'll talk. So he asks because he loves making it about himself: "You ever get nightmares?"

"About ABQ?" Jesse says. "That's all I get."

"I guess you could say we're coping famously."

"What happened to moving forward?" Jesse turns to look at Saul directly, a satisfied smirk across his face.

Yeah, yeah. He's a hypocrite.

Jesse stretches out, most likely filing away the comfort in knowing that they're rowing the same damn guilt canoe. He confides quietly, like someone will hear him if he's not quiet, "It feels like ghosts, right? All those lives we wrecked?"

Saul crosses his arms and considers his response. He hates himself for at first feeling the need to deny doing any wrong. He was helping people. Of course. Of course he was. He thinks of Walt and asks with caution, "Who do you see?"

Jesse sighs and looks down at his hands, palms up. Then he rubs at his wrists: "I feel chains like they were there yesterday."

That's poetic. Poetic until he sees Jesse's wrists, reddened like stigmata. They're scars, thicker than the ones on Jesse's face. The sight makes him panic and he doesn't know why. In the blue light of the television, the scars glow angry and white. He feels a question bubble up into his throat but he bites his tongue and waits.

"Karma, right? I got what was coming to me." He doesn't even seem bothered by it, which makes Saul want to fucking shake him. "I still feel like it wasn't enough."

Saul takes in a deep breath and realizes that he's the one shaking. He swallows, tampers down whatever the hell he's trying to straighten out. "Did someone-- Who did this?"

"Doesn't matter who. Mr. White, the DEA, dickbag nazis. Me," he shrugs. He covers his hands with his face, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. His tone gets darker, like he's starting to fall apart at the edges. "All I know is that it's gonna get worse."

Jesse grits his teeth and pleadingly looks to Saul. "That's why I can't stay."

Saul places a hand on Jesse's shoulder, feeling like his arms are gonna grind into dust. The gesture is more for himself than for Jesse and he's weirdly placated by the contact. All he brings himself to say is "Stay."

He gives himself time to think of a decent reason to make him stay. All that's coming up is me, me, me. So he runs with it: "We had plans for tomorrow. I'm not gonna let you stand me up."

By the time he turns back to look at Saul, Jesse is a damn mess, tears rolling down his face. Despite himself, Saul puts an arm fully around Jesse's shoulders. Jesse leans into it, which is incredibly surprising. This close, he feels so thin and light, like he could crumble away under his hands. Saul knows better.

"We'll sort this out." Saul helps people.

Jesse nods against him, so pliant and easy. They don't say anything else. Saul listens for Jesse's breathing to even out, likening the rhythm to a roaring coast he saw a long time ago.

* * *

Saul's head is buzzing with drowsiness. He's not sure when they fell asleep last night but he wakes up on the couch with Jesse nestled against his side.

The morning light makes the lines in Jesse's face appear bolder and darker. Saul drinks up the sight. With his eyes, he traces the cracks and scars across Jesse's face. He tries to read between the scars, as if the knots in his skin will tell all the horror stories he wants to hear.

Saul didn't get out of there the same way Jesse did. No matter what happened to him, he knows Jesse walked through hell and back. That makes Saul a form of hell, doesn't it?

Jesse shifts against Saul, but doesn't open his eyes. Slurred with sleep, he says, "Stop staring at me, yo. Feel it like laser beams."

Saul expects Jesse to turn over and away from him, but he gets something else. Jesse nestles in closer, hiding his face against Saul's side. Saul almost coughs from the sweetness of the gesture.

Jesse falls back to sleep and Saul follows.

They officially wake up at eleven. They untangle themselves from each other without a single word. It's just an average day.

They decide on lunch. They go to a sandwich shop that's less than ten minutes away from Saul's house. Baby steps. Like an agoraphobic's big day out.

Roast beef and cheese for Jesse, pastrami on rye for Saul. They sit in the outdoor seating area, which is quiet enough. They spend a good amount of time hunched over their ice waters in silence, avoiding each other's eyes while they wait for the food to come.

Across the patio is a droopy-looking dog sitting under its owner's chair. There's a paper cup placed in front of the dog. Saul's not entirely sure if the dog can lap up any water from the cup but he's willing to wait to find out.

"How's work?" Jesse asks.

Saul automatically thinks about his cases. He thinks of his office desk and the damn blow-up Statue of Liberty on the roof. Looking back at Jesse, he realizes his mistake and cringes. He hides this moment he's having with a vague statement: "Business is booming."

Jesse unsheathes one of his cruel, jeering smiles. It's the same smile that easily doubles as terrifyingly seductive. "Would you call it a real sweet deal?"

"I would not," he says around a grimace.

Jesse's pleased with himself, obviously more relaxed than Saul out here. Saul wouldn't be surprised if he had a death wish.

This whole situation feels like driving a convertible with the top down. There's no buffer between him and the open world. This feels like a date. Is this a date? They're not talking about last night or this morning. And they certainly didn't discuss keeping certain topics or names on the downlow while they're out here. They're just teetering on the open edge.

Saul is briefly washed over with the impulse to grip the edge of the table. He keeps his head down and gets back into Gene's headspace. Managing a Cinnabon and working with kids like Whitney. "You ever think about going back to school?"

"Nah," Jesse answers easily. "Definitely not my scene."

"What do you think you would have majored in?"

"I don't know, jerking off?" He squints up at him, slightly badgered by the question. "I bet you were all into the academia crowd back in your day."

Saul gives a hearty laugh. "Nope."

"What do you mean 'nope'? You got your law degree, didn't you?"

"Online," Saul says. "It wasn't even under my real name."

Jesse sits back, amused. "Your degree really was as legit as your business."

"It kept your nose out of enough trouble."

"Yeah, well, s--" Jesse freezes, cocks his head like he's caught wind of a predator. Saul doesn't ask, just waits. He steals furtive glances to his left, then his right. Jesse narrows his eyes slightly, but gives nothing away.

And the moment passes.

Saul just witnessed Jesse turn into a startled elk. He files that away somewhere in his head. He'll wait for an explanation.

They take a walk around a grossly picturesque rose garden. Saul finds it egregious that the place exists and he's walking through it with Jesse Pinkman. They walk side-by-side at their leisure.

Saul can't help but wonder what everyone around them sees. Does he look old enough to be his father? Could they pass as business partners? Is there someone out there who knows?

"Hey, relax," Jesse warns Saul under his breath.

"What?"

"Nobody's watching us," Jesse says. "But if they were, they wouldn't know anything. So relax."

Coming from him, it strikes Saul as an odd thing to suggest. If there's anybody here who knows something, it might be Jesse.

Saul leans against him, trying to keep it quiet. "Cop at your eleven."

"Bullshit," Jesse laughs. What a professional; Saul's impressed that Jesse doesn't whip his head in the direction at hand. There really is a plainclothes policeman hanging out on a bench though. The posture begs for a holster. Jesse is amused: "Who else is around here?"

"You tell me."

"I see..." Jesse scans the moderate lunch crowd. He decides, "A whole lot of suits."

It's true enough. There are plenty of 30s-and-over milling around in the lunch hour block of a weekday. "See the lady to your left--Margaret Thatcher over there? Definitely not money, but she tries to be. Married into middle class living."

"You are so full of shit," Jesse shakes his head, the non-believer.

"Definitely a potential client."

"Divorce case?"

"Class action. The senior folks love that one."

Talk about tacky date ideas. They spend their afternoon bullshitting about other people. They laugh and talk in low voices on a rose garden bench like they've almost forgotten that they have blood on their hands. Romantic.

* * *

Saul notices that Jesse keeps his clothing squirreled away in plastic bags, strategically hidden in hollows of the house. He finds a bag in a corner near the entryway. He's been an awful host.

He figures it's time to clear out some drawer and closet space. It's good to keep his wardrobe updated anyway. Consider it Spring cleaning. He fills a plastic trash bag with a few items, mostly socks that've seen better days. Then he comes to his closet.

It's solid monochrome three-quarters of the way down the rung, then all the way to the left are the screaming bright colors of New Mexico's days long-passed. Saul runs a thumb over the dust that's collected on the shoulder of a rose-colored dress shirt.

He takes them all down, hanger and all. He throws them in the plastic bag one after the other. On second thought, maybe not hanger and all. He needs those hangers. He's not made of money. He dehangers them in the bag and continues his purge.

"Jesse!" he calls for him in the house after he's done, shamelessly pumped with adrenaline.

He finds Jesse in the backyard on his knees. Planting flowers. He's planting flowers in Saul's backyard. He's not gonna even bother.

"Come on, I want to show you something."

Jesse looks over his shoulder to give him a bewildered look. Right back at ya, kid. Saul's not the one planting flowers for no reason.

"Wipe off your shoes before you get in the house." He doesn't wait for Jesse to get up. He stands around at the foot of the stairs.

"What's happening here?" Jesse asks when he meets him there.

"Not a fan of surprises, are you?"

"Good guess," he responds. "Since when were you?"

Touché. Saul gives up, starting up the stairs as intended: "You can store your clothes in some of my drawer space. I'll show you."

They stand there before the line of empty drawers and the drawers stare back, gaping wide and somewhat emoting a face of shock. Jesse rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, effectively coating his neck in dirt marks, "Are you sure?"

Saul is sure.

"This is getting serious," Jesse says.

"I'm ready when you're ready."

Jesse's eyes are on him and Saul prepares for the worst because he can feel his heart flutter in his chest. Finally, Jesse says: "I can help you out with rent or whatever."

"No." Saul's sure about that too. "Mortgage is on Saul Goodman, may God rest his beneficent soul. Otherwise, I don't get involved with money from our yesteryears. I don't like a mess."

"Suit yourself." Jesse acts put off by his refusal, but Saul knows that Jesse gets it. Blood money and all that. "We gonna adopt a kid together too?"

"Play your cards right and I'll even throw in a goodbye kiss every time I leave for work." Saul feels like a sore thumb. An open wound. He crosses his arms in front of himself, which helps a little.

"You're serious," Jesse states. "I mean, about me staying here."

Saul can't imagine it being an issue at this point. Normally this conversation comes up at the beginning of one's stay, but Jesse is special. "You've planted your roots here--in more ways than one. Why uproot you when I'm already talking in plant metaphors?"

Jesse lets the dead air land where it falls, but he musters up an appreciative nod of some sort. Then he asks, "You want to watch some TV with me?"

* * *

Saul used to watch a lot of TV after work. It was endless streams of cooking shows. Sometimes he was interested in the content. Sometimes he wouldn't even notice when the night turned to infomercials.

In the past four months, he had seen French onion soup be made by about three different suburban women and one man who takes his grill too seriously. A blowtorch might've been involved in the latter.

Overall, he liked the flow of narration. The way that the chatter filled his living room made it feel a little less empty. Sitcoms and dramas don't have the same quality to it.

Cooking shows are simple, methodical, and even. No gunshots, explosions, or screaming. He's come to terms with the idea that he's fallen into the life of a boring old man, rated PG in all the worst ways. He could feel his libido taking a plummet by the day. He was fine with it. He's fine with it. Viva la senior living, baby.

It wasn't like his sex life was the most active before he left New Mexico. More money, more problems. That statement rang true when the literal mountains of cash came from a certain Walter White. Saul was stressed out in those last couple of years. He developed a finicky bladder, sleep trouble, and a whole pupu platter of paranoid habits. He knew where the line was drawn between careful and paranoid. He's ashamed to say that there was no room for sexual activity in his regiment of sweeping his location for bombs, poison, or hit men.

Yet here he is, jerking off alone in his room after a long session of channel-surfing with his roomie. The sequence of events is confusing, to say the least. But he'll take it where he can get it.

He found strange comfort in the back-and-forth of conversation spurred by commercials, news reports, whatever. They shared a couch--the couch that serves as Jesse's makeshift bed. Jesse made room for him, scooting over and shifting his pillow to the other side. A casual gesture, but something Saul appreciated. It felt like Jesse had invited him into his room, even if that couch is definitely where Saul used to park himself during cooking show marathons back in the day.

It was cozy. He felt genuine body heat radiating off of Jesse and he's currently slightly obsessed with the feeling. Human contact. He used to know it so well.

The line of Jesse's arm is so thin, but bears a weighty solidity. Jesse's hands are also obviously an object of focus here. He really wants them on his cock.

Or no, not in general. For the moment, yeah. His train of thought is a slip and slide of fun. It gets free reign during his alone time. So he lets it wander.

Those fingers of Jesse's are bony little things. It's great. Doesn't matter what shape or size those hands are, they would pack a good grip. They would wrap around Saul's cock, starting at the base.

"That good?" Jesse would growl lowly, flash him that cocky grin.

Yeah, good. Fuck. He knows he'd be a goddamn tease, jerking him too slowly at first. Saul lets his hips buck and he feels that spike of pleasure roll up into his head. He thinks of skin. Saul would run a hand over a smooth shoulder and lower down his back. Nails would bite into skin just enough to broadcast impatience.

Jesse would make it teeter on the edge of cruelty, picking up speed at the drop of a hat. He'd stroke his cock roughly, quickly until it fucking hurt. Then slow it back down when Saul's hissing and clawing and basically turning into a rabid werewolf.

And just when Saul thinks he's about to keel over, Jesse would dive right in, guiding Saul's leaking cock into his mouth. That shock of warmth would drive Saul crazy and he'd be right there howling at the moon as he blows his load into Jesse's eager mouth.

God, he's so fucked. Saul had stolen long glances at the sharp lines of Jesse's face in the sickly light of the TV. It was mesmerizing and stupid because Saul realizes that he's really very lonely.

Crushes are for people who don't know how to navigate a gentleman's club. For people who fall asleep with spunk stains drying across their stomach.

That's why Saul wipes himself down and hops in the shower.

* * *

He expects to feel more at ease the next morning, but every movement feels weighed down by a worrying static. It makes him jumpy. He fears that a fire will start in thin air at any movement he makes.

Saul swears Jesse can smell the guilt on him. He's on the receiving end of furtive smirks this morning, like they both know something that everyone else doesn't know.

To make matters worse, he's out of milk. And bread. And only now is he realizing that two people in the house means a faster depletion of kitchen stock. Halfway through a bowl of oatmeal, he slides a pen and a little pad of paper towards Jesse: "I'm going to the grocery store in a bit. Write down what you need."

Jesse looks down at the paper in slight distaste, mouth aquirk. He looks up. "I'll come with."

"You sure?"

Jesse shoots him a look.

So that's what they do for their afternoon. Jesse pushes the cart around, following Saul this way and that. The kid is halfway slumped over the cart and lightly mouthing at a hoodie string. Saul is grateful for the simplicity of the moment. He's weirdly glad that they're both alive. They've got lives ahead of them.

Saul is struck by the impulse to wrap an arm around Jesse and pull him in for a hug. But he won't. He's overly emotional today.

"Easy Mac or the ones in the box?" Jesse asks at the foot of a giant row of instant meals.

"You wound me. We can do better." Saul keeps walking.

Jesse rolls after him. "Hey, since when did you have standards?"

"Wow," Saul laughs. "Right in the kisser. Talk about fatality."

A little girl blocks the opening of the aisle, so they roll to a stop a few feet away. She doesn't notice them. She jumps back and forth between the two brown squares in the floor tiles. The girl is a tiny pudgy little thing with stringy light hair.

Her mother coaxes the girl out of their path: "Kaylee! Come on, babe."

Saul wilts at the sound of that name but does his best to sweep that wretched feeling under the rug. But it comes flowing back up again when he turns to see Jesse looking thoroughly disturbed. Jesse's breathing in shudders and he's staring widely at nothingness.

Now's the time to put an arm around him. He winds an arm around Jesse's side, bringing him close enough to deliver a few reassurances. "You're fine. Just breathe."

Thankfully, Jesse's reaction deescalates smoothly without making a scene. His uneven breath subsides against Saul's chest. Kaylee Ehrmantraut and her mother are alive. He pulled some strings when the time was right. They may not be swimming in the sweet, green dinero that Mike would've hoped for, but they're safe. Mike would've appreciated that, at least.

When they get home, they put away the groceries in tandem. And in silence. Afterwards, Jesse trudges over to the living room and plants himself heavily onto the couch. Saul sits next to him.

He doesn't know if he should touch him. He wants to, but he's running out of excuses.

Yet, he doesn't need one. Jesse rests his head against Saul's shoulder and it's that easy. He knows this part: Saul shifts and Jesse moves his head. He puts his arm around Jesse's shoulder and they just fit. They converge.

Saul exhales, wondering what the hell he's done lately to deserve this. This is the most comfortable he's been in years.

"I always wanted a daughter," Jesse mumbles quietly.

A part of him wants to apologize, which is ridiculous because really. But Jesse looks so resigned.

"Did you ever get to meet Mike's niece?"

Jesse looks up at Saul. "No."

"Let me tell ya, she doesn't look a single bit like old Mike. Gods be praised. But she's just as sharp," Saul supplies. He doesn't know if he's running into oncoming traffic here, but Jesse would probably like to hear this. Especially considering the millions of dollars Jesse wanted to toss at her not long ago.

Saul adds, "She's gonna take good care of her mother."

Jesse sits up to regard Saul fully. Saul spends some time deciphering Jesse's gaze. It's a focused look. And that's when Jesse kisses him. Saul is shocked. The kid swooped in so smoothly.

Jesse backs off when Saul doesn't react. Saul froze there. He didn't mean to. Blinking away the shock, he places a hand at the side of Jesse's face and kisses him back. He expects the gates of hell to open up under his feet. Instead, his lips buzz at the contact. Jesse's lips are soft and certainly lacking satanic elements. He tastes like a cold glass of water. Saul licks at those lips and he feels goddamn reborn.

"Saul," Jesse breathes, just something to say to punctuate the tension as they break apart.

"I..." Saul starts but doesn't know how to finish his sentence. Here's how: "I've gotta go to work."

* * *

"How was your Wednesday, Gene? Day off, right? Did you do anything good?"

Saul hates that question. He never knows how to answer. Even worse, Whitney never fails to act sincerely interested in his response. "I spent time with an old friend."

"That's great," she smiles. "Are they from around here?"

"No, they're here to visit."

"That's great. I should visit my old high school friends someday. I miss them." Thank god she doesn't pry.

"I'd recommend it," Saul supplies, thinking of the softness of Jesse's cheek. His fingertips are buzzing from it. Boy, would he recommend it.

He feels pent up throughout the work hours. Evening shift for the day. What a trip. He should've called in sick, but the regular closing manager already took the schedule for a whirl this week. Responsibilities.

Food services is not his calling. He kind of likes that he's been able to do a little bit of this and that in his life. This won't be his last.

God, he hopes this isn't his last.

At the same time, he wonders if Jesse showing up is the Grim Reaper's way of knocking on his door. It might be worth it, if the near future plays out like his groin is begging it to. If that kid is the death of him, so be it.

But not really. He's got a few more decades on him. Give him a break. He just wants to screw.

* * *

They take to making out on the couch shamelessly because they're 15 years old. Saul can't get enough of it. He can't even see straight. He's too old for this, but it's not like anything around here makes sense anymore.

Jesse's straddling his lap, while Saul can only bring himself to smooth a hand over Jesse's back. Saul thanks his creaking hips for not bucking into the closest source of heat. He's hard in his pants and kind of embarrassed by it. He doesn't want to presume. He doesn't want to create expectations.

Jesse pulls away and looks down into Saul's eyes like he's heard Saul's thoughts. Saul watches the sun catch Jesse's eyes perfectly to see blown pupils. He's never thought to look out for them on anyone before. He's simply trading one trance for another. He's hypnotized.

Until Jesse says, "I wanna get you off. You cool with this?"

He says it like he's announcing that he's gonna go to the store for some eggs. Saul blinks. He scrambles for a response and, in his dumbstruck scramble, he almost lets slip "Are you?"

Instead, he takes reign of the situation. He's an adult. A civilized adult who's about to get it on with a guy over a decade younger than him. "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. Upstairs."

Saul takes a breather and bats the nervous jitters away like cobwebs. And Jesse? He casually slinks his way to his feet and leads them up the stairs. Someone give the kid a gold prize for playing it cool with a hard-on straining against tight jeans.

In pure honeymoon fashion, Jesse unceremoniously whips off his own shirt as soon as he gets to the room, flops onto the bed, and says, "Come here, I wanna suck you off."

This seems like the perfect time to throw back a shot of something strong because that's what a seasoned, rough-and-tough protagonist would do at a time like this. Seasoned, he is. Rough or tough, he is not. Consider him a peppered trout.

At a loss, he watches Jesse work his way out of his pants, the world unfolding like his dreams are coming true. Jesse sits there in tented boxer shorts, giving him an expectant look. That breaks Saul out of his trance. He stands at the foot of the bed, placing himself between Jesse's spread legs. He kisses him, sucking at Jesse’s bottom lip for lack of anything better to start off with.

Taking the lead, Jesse coaxes him onto the bed with a tug at Saul's belt. Saul feels the strumming of idle thoughts in the back of his mind: scars and scars. Jesse has scars across his chest, shoulders, and stomach that match the rest of him. God knows it'd be awful of him to draw attention to it, but he itches to drag a hand across every one of them.

He lets Jesse take the lead, lying back and surrendering himself to the mercy of a scrawny, smirking stray. Without pretense, Jesse works his way south to undo Saul's pants.

"You done this before?" Saul asks tentatively at risk of shattering the moment. If he doesn't ask, it would've left him wondering until something went horribly wrong or horribly right.

Jesse answers simply: "No." But he pauses and raises an eyebrow at Saul as if to ask if this is a problem. Saul wants to avoid the combination of syllables that will make Jesse change his mind, so he does nothing. After a beat, Jesse moves forward.

Saul is struck by a weird loneliness, struck by the loss of Jesse up here with him at eye level. He feels it until he's hit by the sensation of soft lips around the head of his cock. The shock of it feels like a firecracker went off in his head. And then it's a tip of tongue--just an experimental lick--and he swears he's gonna die tonight.

Saul props himself up with his elbows because there's no way in hell that he's gonna turn a blind eye to this sight.

Jesse wraps a hand around the base of Saul's cock, steadying things for better access. Before Saul knows it, Jesse's got a mouth full of cock, lips stretched wide. The kid's got initiative, he'll give him that.

His right hand reaches over to push Jesse's mouth deeper, but Saul catches himself. You know what they say about old habits. He runs a reassuring hand through Jesse's hair instead as Jesse bobs his head lower, setting his own pace. Saul feels sparks at the base of his spine, wanting more.

In any other situation, Saul could demand a deepthroat, no problem. But this is Jesse. There's a trust here between them. A trust that involves not making Jesse choke on his genitals.

"Mmph," Jesse pulls away, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. "This is harder than it looks."

"What can I say? You have that effect on me."

"No, I mean--" He catches himself mid-way when it hits him that Saul's joking. They're not all thinking clearly here. Jesse actually frowns at himself, which is a sad sight to see.

"I'm not complaining." Saul brushes hair away from Jesse's face. "Just relax. Ease into it."

A little encouragement goes a long way; Jesse gets back to it and blows him in earnest, all the self-conscious stops and starts fallen away. Saul covers Jesse's hand on his cock with his own, urging him to give the neglected length some attention. He gets the hint.

Jesse makes an obscene sucking noise and it's all wet, wet. Spit drips down Saul's cock and Jesse uses it as leverage to stroke him off faster and slicker. And Saul wildly appreciates the gesture, tightening his hold on Jesse's hair and groaning happily, "God, Jesse."

Saul's back arches and he clenches his jaw to keep himself from bucking his hips into Jesse's mouth. He wants to fuck into that hot heat and never fucking stop. Lips and tongue sear his nerve endings and he barely contains a bout of hyperventilation. He stays as quiet as he can because he wants to hear every little wet sucking noise that Jesse's mouth makes around his cock. He's full-sail towards an Olympic medal given the restraint he's putting on here as Jesse moves his mouth over him.

He tugs on the back of Jesse's hair, enough to probably hurt just a little. It's not for the mere sake of making him hurt. He's giving him the courtesy of a warning. "I'm close."

Jesse takes it as less of a warning and more of a reason to go at it without mercy. His eyes flick up into Saul's with a look of mischief and he works his tongue filthily and widely up and down the shaft. It doesn't take a lot more for Saul to come. One clever swipe of a tongue across the sensitive spot that runs down the underside of Saul’s cock and he's knocked off the edge.

"Ohh," Saul moans. He comes with a series of graceless grunts.

Jesse swallows it down with determination, sucking away with each pulse. He's a goddamn miracle is what he is. At the last weak spurt, Saul is spent, laying back with his arm covering his face. All he can muster is "Fuck."

Jesse crawls up to join Saul higher up on the bed. No touching; just proximity as he lays on his side. Jesse hums with contentment: "That was good."

“You--" Saul breathes for a moment, gathering his bearings and slipping his pants back on. He turns his head to take in the sight: lips swollen, reddened and a smile that lights up Jesse’s eyes. “Do you want me to, uh, complete the transaction?”

“What?”

He nods towards the painfully obvious erection straining against Jesse's shorts: "You want me to help you with that?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” he says. He rises to a sitting position against the head of the bed and rubs at his eye with the butt of his palm, groaning. ”God, I want a cigarette so badly."

He joins Jesse up top, suddenly occurring to him that he hasn’t seen Jesse smoke at all lately. "It's called an oral fixation for a reason."

"Gross, dude,” Jesse complains like he didn’t just perform enthusiastic fellatio on Saul.

"You're free to sleep here tonight." And the rest of forever.

"Solid," he mumbles sleepily. He sags against the wall and shuts his eyes. Saul quizzically observes the awkward position, assaulted with a prodding obligation to pose him in a more comfortable place on the bed.

He leans over to kiss the side of Jesse's face and proceeds to slowly pull and push Jesse into a decent enough place, at least enough to get him under the covers.

* * *

Jesse joins Saul in the shower the next morning. At first, Saul feels oddly intruded upon, embarrassed when Jesse clicks open the shower door and slips in behind him. He more or less kept his clothes on last night, so this is new territory. He turns around to accept Jesse; if he doesn’t like what he sees, he’s free to go.

Jesse kisses him, licking the beads of water off Saul’s lips. Saul takes that as a positive go-ahead.

Saul rubs body wash across Jesse's shoulders, working it into his biceps and creating suds over his chest. Jesse's eyes are half-shut and his sullen submission reminds Saul of those frowning dogs standing in a kiddie pool covered in soap. But a lilt in the corners of Jesse's mouth tells Saul that he's enjoying himself enough.

He never thought about Jesse's tattoos. He's seen the scorpion-looking thing on his right arm, sure. But there are two more: a spindly dragon dribbles down Jesse's chest and a skull sits squarely on his back. A scar runs clean through the one on his chest, as if someone felt highly inclined to slay a dragon.

Saul kisses him on the forehead. Jesse shifts closer, winding an arm around Saul's back to bring him in and rest his sharp chin against his shoulder. Saul feels something brush against his thigh. Somebody's interested.

He continues washing Jesse without moving him, mostly massaging soap down his back. He can't help himself; he wraps his hands around Jesse's ass cheeks and squeezes. Then he licks the smooth patch of skin under Jesse's ear. That earns him a shudder and a light hum.

Jesse lifts his head up to squint at Saul. "You," he chuckles, "are one dirty old man."

Old man doesn't quite sound right to him. He's one hop, skip, and a jump away from feeling offended. Instead, he takes that energy someplace else and laughs, "Obviously, we're working on the dirty part. But old?"

Saul takes Jesse's mouth in his and backs him up against the tile, hands still at his ass. Jesse is fully hard now and, God, that's a beautiful sight. He's not going to touch him--not his cock. Too easy. No risk, no reward: he lets two fingers slip lower and circles Jesse's hole, gently. He's really hoping--

"Ohh," Jesse moans long and loud and crumples forward against Saul's neck. Jackpot.

Saul lets the pads of his fingers do the talking. He rubs at the tight hole, slow and easy. Keep it gentle. Jesse is responsive, grinding against the touch eagerly while he shudders and gasps.

He wants to fuck him and draw those moans out until they're both hoarse and collapsing. His fingers imploringly apply a little more pressure, enough to test him. Jesse stiffens and jerks away from his fingers.

"Easy," Jesse growls against his neck.

Too much, too fast. Fair enough. Saul hopes his form of apology comes across. He turns Jesse around quickly and his mouth finds the side of Jesse's neck. He grips Jesse's cock.

"Jesus," Jesse says under his breath, although Saul isn't so sure what it's in response to.

Either way, Saul doesn't waste any time jerking him off. He works at the base and strokes him all the way to the head, long strokes picking up speed. Jesse lets out a low "Fuck" and it echoes off the tile, reverberating through Saul's body. It's enough to ignite hot sparks at the base of Saul's back.

Jesse grasps at Saul's other hand at his chest. Saul doesn't know what he wants. The grasping comes clumsily, aimlessly. Saul kisses along the freckles on Jesse's shoulder. He loves feeling Jesse unravel against him, feeling more than hearing the roughening hums and moans. He wants to hear them.

He turns the shower nob to turn the spray entirely off. Jesse turns his head to Saul questioningly.

"We're in a drought," Saul explains. He continues stroking him and sucking at the soft skin at his neck. Jesse leans back against him, tipping his head back and turning into putty in Saul's arms. It's not enough. He's sorry to do this, but he leans Jesse forward. Jesse puts both hands against the wall; he knows the drill. Saul drapes himself over Jesse's arched back.

This gives Saul just the right position to work him on both sides, grip tight around Jesse's cock and the other hand works at that ass. He rubs circles around the rim. Jesse's breath hitches and he lets out a noise that sounds a lot like a whimper. Saul wants to thank a higher power right now.

He owes some of his thanks to his decades of multitasking because it takes some skill to touch Jesse like this, attention balanced between fingering him lightly and stroking his cock roughly. And focus is a hard thing to maintain when Jesse is spewing incoherent profanity.

"F-fucking fuck," he moans, ever the poet. His hips stutter and twitch against Saul's touch. Saul places kisses along the back of his shoulder, wanting to steady him but also wanting to see him fall to pieces. It's conflicting.

He decides on the latter, pumping Jesse's cock with intention. He listens for a shift in Jesse's breath to find just the right angle and pace that'll push him over the edge. It doesn't take a lot of sleuthing to figure it out. When Saul strokes him fast and closer to the base, Jesse groans, "Yeah, oh god. Like that." So that's what Saul gives him.

Jesse comes with a wrenched moan. He comes hard enough for it to reach the shower wall. His cock pulses a few more times, making a mess of the floor. He rubs at Jesse until he's spent.

Jesse sags forward against trembling arms, leveling out his breathing and giving intermittent moans of exhaustion. "What the fuck," he groans with finality. It's an exclamation that basically functions as a reboot noise. He's come back to life.

"It's been a while, huh?" Saul asks as he holds him closely around his middle.

"Yeah," Jesse answers, sounding a little astounded.

* * *

Saul can't find him. He doesn't want to be dramatic, but he casually checked the house and rounded the backyard and he can't find Jesse. He got back from work and the place was dead silent. He called Jesse's name once in the house and he felt the attempt clunk to the ground.

He's not going to jump to conclusions. Jesse's daily schedule is nothing but inconsistent. He must be getting up to something vague. Of course.

Saul goes to work and gets his mind off of the potential non-issue. He doesn't worry about it in between batches of dough. Or in cleaning the counters. Or in scanning the passing crowd for a familiar face.

"How are you feeling today?" Whitney sidles up next to him as he's finding the image of Jesus Christ in an icing smear. He sees a quarter of a forehead. He blinks, loses it.

Resigned, he looks up at Whitney and answers, "Haven't been sleeping too well."

"It's gotta be the heat. Winter's ending really quickly."

"Must be," he agrees. "Hey, Whitney."

"Yeah?"

"What would you have done if you were promoted instead of me?"

Her eyes widen, maybe surprised by the question. But the surprise melts back into her default pleasantness: "Well, I'd be doing what you do now."

Well. As they say in the trendy urban parts of the world: duh. He doesn't broach the topic. She might've made a halfway decent manager. She's a people person, which Gene isn't.

If he wasn't around, maybe she would liven up the place a little. Nothing to hold her back. If he suddenly took off, she'd take the reigns, no problem. If he suddenly disappeared.

The evening ends fitfully, like he spent the day cleaning the ovens with a rubber shoe and one arm. Everything feels discombobulated as he closes down the shop. His world is tipping towards apocalypse.

Driving home, he imagines finding Jesse waiting for him on the porch with an apology. He'd apologize for almost leaving and never coming back because it was a dumb idea.

He clenches his fist around the steering wheel. He really is being dramatic. Like a woo girl taking full offense that a make-out session never developed into full-blown marriage. If he's gone, everything will go back to normal. Gene can live his life, one rewatch of his glory days on VHS at a time. Just like before.

* * *

Call him a damn prophet. Saul pulls into the driveway to find Jesse sitting on the porch, looking like he dragged himself out of a shitty romance movie based on a shitty romance novel.

"Where the hell have you been?" Saul asks, so relieved.

Now that he's closer to him, he notices dried blood on his chin and the side of his face. Jesse is a mess and ducks his head to poorly conceal it as Saul's face falls. Saul hauls him up and quickly brings Jesse inside.

The door closes and Saul takes him by the shoulders. In the light, he looks awful with a black eye coming in and a split lip. Just like old times. Saul looks him dead in the eyes and asks firmly, "Were the police involved?"

Jesse looks down, past Saul's shoulder. Saul shakes him lightly. "Jesse. Do they know?"

"No."

Saul lets him go and takes in a breath. "You wanna recount your little adventures or is this another one of those things that never happened?"

"I got into a fight," Jesse shrugs. "The other guy was wrong."

"About what? The ending of The Sopranos?"

"I broke a window," he provides as if Saul will understand. He doesn't.

"Great. The old 'destruction of property' gag. Fun for the whole family. And the window hit back?"

"The guys inside the building were pretty pissed when they came out. They gave me this." He points to his blackening eye. "After I roughed them up a little."

Jesse is out looking for fights. That's exactly what he needs. Saul makes his way deeper into the living room because the air between him and Jesse feels stagnant and suffocating. "You know what that sounds like?"

Jesse leans back against the door where Saul left him. He responds with a blink.

"A bad cliche," he says, punctuating each syllable with a finger point at Jesse. He paces the living room for a bit and thinks of what needs to be done, lest they want this to blow up in their faces. "So, did you accomplish what you set out to accomplish with this act of mayhem?"

"Yeah, I did." Jesse pushes himself away from the wall and advances closer to Saul with defiance. He says with his voice lowered: "Yo, they were neo-Nazis. This building, it's where they meet."

Saul's eyebrows shoot into his hairline. What a development. “This whole thing reeks of hate crime.“

"What do you mean? Are you seriously defending them?"

"No. I am not. We need to think about what side the law is going to take. The police find out about this? They're not gonna take the side of some guy from nowhere throwing bricks at neighborhood windows," Saul explains. "For all we know, the precinct grabs beers with the motley crew of skinheads every Wednesday. That's the nature of the law around here; they have this sick sense of community."

"That's paranoid, man."

"Do we not live in a universe of meth-brewing chemistry teachers? And chicken shack dictators? Am I the only one that watches the news?"

"Alright, alright," Jesse groans.

"There are gonna be people who will want you to answer for what you did. And I'm not talking disgruntled soccer moms here."

"I know."

Saul stops moving about the room to regard Jesse closely. He maintains a quarter of the room's distance from him, but he's painted in it. It's unmistakable: "You don't feel sorry for this, do you?"

"No." Something switches in Jesse's head and his shoulders fall. He drifts closer to Saul, coming within arm's reach. With a lowering of the head and a batting of the lashes, Jesse goes from petulant little shit to charming bastard in a flash. God, he's dangerous.

"Let's go to bed," Jesse suggests, voice low and face still covered in dried blood.

Like that, Saul folds. He draws a thumb across the red on Jesse's chin. "I'll clean you up."

A wet washcloth does the trick. Jesse sits at the edge of Saul's bed while Saul dabs at his face with care. With his fingers, Saul feels the edges of Jesse's right brow, right where it's purpling. Jesse barely flinches, just gives a quirk of his mouth.

A hand goes to Saul's wrist. Jesse places Saul's hand to a newly clean cheek, holds it there and sinks into it. Jesse breathes out, relishing the warmth of Saul's palm.

This crushes Saul. Jesse can bring him to his knees, bring his life to ruins. He has before. And he can again, but worse this time because it's much, much different.

"Jesse."

His eyes flutter open.

"Did you know any of them?"

His brows furl and he purses his lips. He backs away from Saul's touch. "No, I didn't."

"Who are they to you?"

"A pack of dicks?" Jesse rubs at his unbruised eye. He sighs, stands, and turns his back to Saul. He fidgets and paces for a bit, holding his elbow and then knits his fingers behind the back of his neck. He comes to a halt in front of the blinded window, leans against the wall with his arms crossed in front of him.

"This is probably a good time to tell you that I never went to the Extractor." That part comes out like a question, as if asking Saul if they're screwed.

Hell yes they are.

"You're gonna need a lawyer."

"Well, I'm not calling Saul," Jesse supplies sardonically.

"Kid, if push comes to shove, then yeah. You are." He can feel the adrenaline build in his arms, practically sprouting a court-appropriate tie from his collar like a Wonder Woman transformation without the spinning.

"No, no, no. I'm not gonna let you do that. How are you going to explain this? Your law degree doesn't exist anymore."

"Doesn't matter. I'll do it."

"You're blowing your cover--for this?"

“Yeah.” He honestly can’t think of any better way to let Gene die. He takes a deep breath and coaxes Jesse over before he starts to regret his decision, “Come here."

Jesse obeys and takes a seat next to Saul on the edge of the bed. Numbly, he leans against Saul, breathes in and slowly sinks around him. He rubs his cheek against Saul's shoulder, then says quietly, “This is so fucked up."

He looks at Jesse, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes questioningly. He puts an arm around him and rubs at Jesse's bicep. Saul asks, "Remember that time you beat the shit out of me, then stole my car to go douse a house in gasoline?"

"Yeah." Good on him for looking ashamed of that at least. Jesse winces and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Is this the part where you get revenge?"

"No," he decides. He doesn't fully remember where he was going with this. He just finds it hilarious. They definitely skipped a step somewhere. "I wasn't even mad about it. Wrote it off as an occupational hazard. It was pretty much on par for the course."

That was a lie. Saul distinctly remembers being more than mildly miffed. He was serious when he suggested to put the kid down. But he sees Jesse now and that's somebody who could use some forgiveness in his life.

Jesse says quietly, looking at Saul directly, "I don't remember a whole lot of what happened."

"Believe you me, I remember enough for the both of us." The last couple of days that Saul was in Albuquerque, there was less and less of Jesse to be seen. It wasn't that Jesse wasn't around; he could just see that the kid was losing himself by the day. So yeah, a gun in his face and a kick to the ribs by that point was substantially less threatening than the red, red rage in Jesse's eyes. More than anything, Saul was terrified that Walter White bled the humanity out of him for good.

At the same time, Saul wasn't entirely guilt-free in that process. The price was right and he had a guy who could do it. Those two central ideas were his guiding stars.

“If anything ever does come to you,” Saul offers, "you should tell me about it sometime.”

Jesse lays back on the bed, outstretches his arm and drags his palm across the bedspread idly. Saul thinks about that, wondering where Jesse had been sleeping before he ended up at his doorstep.

"You should come with me."

Saul barely hears it, not fully sure if he heard him right in the first place. He waits, but nothing comes. He shifts his sitting position so that he can look down into Jesse’s eyes. “I'll defend you. I’m sure about that. But I’m not leaving here."

Jesse’s eyes flit to the wall past Saul’s shoulder.

“I’ve done enough running,” Saul says, like an apology. "Haven’t you?"

He sees the look in Jesse’s face and he knows the answer is no.

* * *

Saul wakes up the next morning and he’s alone. The sheets beside him are mussed but Jesse’s nowhere to be seen. The house is quiet. He feels an ache in his throat. He hopes he's not coming down with something.

His drawers are absent of any sign of him. Everything in the living room is in its lifeless place. God, was any of this real? Saul sits heavily on the couch and lets ten minutes pass. He waits. Just in case.


End file.
